I'm sitting on rust-pocked bleachers. Though it is a spring evening, fog numbs the tip of my nose and restores my hair to its pre-blow-dried state. My socks are damp. My sneaker tread is wedged with expectorated sunflower seed shells. A foul ball just misses my ear. Still, despite the rust, the frizz, the chill, the shells, and the life-threatening fouls, I am exultant. I am watching my sons play little league where there are Jews on first.

I grew up in a suburb with few Jews. The closest they got to diamonds was owning Kreitzman's Gem Center. While this had something to do with the "you-think-you're-going-to-become-a-professional-baseball-player? Do-your-homework!" syndrome, it had mostly to do with demographics. My elementary school had five Jews, including my brother, sister, and me. My teachers did not know from the ACLU. Every December, among the construction paper Christmas trees was my green menora. Every April, among the cotton ball bunnies was my furry matza. I felt proud God had included me among his chosen people, but couldn't he have chosen a few more?

By contrast, before me now the field is teeming with boychicks, their heritage evident in the names spanning the backs of their jerseys. The letters barely fit across their narrow shoulders: Rappaport, Liebhaber, Blumenfeld, Straussberg. Even the first names ringing across the field reflect Semitic stock: Aaron, Isaac, Nathan, Moses. This isn't a baseball team; it's a minyan, with the umpire determining kosher or treif.

And yet, this isn't an Orthodox league. We revere Sandy Koufax for choosing penance over pennants as we drive to our Shabbos play-offs. We have a sizable contingent of Sullivans and Murphys. It's just that unlike the town where I was raised, here spectators say things like "look at the shmutz on that tuches," or "the catcher has such a punim."

A Jewish sensibility pervades this league beyond the periodic Yiddish. First, expectations and tempers run low. Everyone effuses over effort. Because SATs are valued over ERAs or RBIs, the prevailing sense is that baseball is just for fun. The boys need to air out a little; this is exercise and camaraderie that happen to require a uniform. Snacks tend to be healthy, and the boys arrive for practices lugging not only gloves, bats, and helmets, but musical instruments, homework, and photocopies of their Torah portions. Parents tend to lose track of the games, absorbed in conversations in which they try to pretend they are not pumping each other for information on anything that might benefit their children.

Second, safety reigns. Parents fleetingly rue but ultimately admire the boy thrown out because he declined to slide. A strong survival instinct trumps risking one's neck for a game. Parents whose attention might stray from the statistics have an eye perpetually trained on the player on deck. "Be careful swinging that bat," receives far more airtime than "choke up on it" or "just hit strikes." The fast track to becoming a pariah is to throw the bat. Pitchers who inadvertently pelt batters are racked with guilt, and the applause greeting a hurt player who shows signs of life is deafening. We compete through our children, both on and off the field, but imperiled, each boy feels like our own, and we bring to every injury the full force of our collective anxiety.

Third, integrity is more important than victory. In our league, the sportsmanship award really means something. Not a consolation prize to the hapless, it represents the ultimate achievement: remaining honorable despite frustration, rivalry, boredom, and an athletic cup. With time, the first place trophy will loose its sheen. The gold-painted plastic bat will inevitably snap off, taking with it part of an arm and leaving the figure looking like Venus de Milo in ankle pants and a baseball cap.

Sportsmanship, though, endures. Pitching skills don't help future relationships; indeed, one committed to another should never play the field. Speed, strength, and stamina don't, without something more, make for a good catch. Life extends far beyond these bases; a good heart is far more important than a good arm. Ultimately, the boy who helps a fallen teammate is likelier one day to help a fallen world.

The game is over. I drag in the outfield fence with the banner advertising the local deli. We've got Shawn Green, Brad Ausmus, Mike Lieberthal, Gabe Kapler, Alan Levine, and Scott Shoeneweis, among others, in the big leagues, and menschen on these benches. My sons know Jews make up only a small part of our nation's population. They go to public school, where they have befriended children from an array of cultures. But this is their culture. We live in a neighborhood with a high concentration of Jews because I wanted them to feel at home. Now they even feel it at home plate.